When a Cheater Wins
by Rydain
Summary: Trinity is the sort of trouble Clay can see himself getting into quite deeply, not that this is any way to think about a woman he's only just laid eyes on - let alone the card sharp swindling his brother's table. [Pre-Relationship] [No Spoilers]
1. High Stakes

_Contemporary AU, more Gatsby than gameverse - plays fast and loose with details that don't fit into my worldbuilding. Either a possible precursor to canon or merrily divergent, depending on your sense of the game's era and how many spoilers you prefer to hang over everyone's heads._

* * *

Trinity had been traveling long enough to properly savor the Wembley that the chauffeur had suggested when settling her in for the ride, then for her excitement to ebb into a calm anticipation that she relished just as well as that sweet slow burn of liquor. Her heart kicked up at a sharp turn onto the gravel crunch of a private road, even before the chauffeur spoke for the first time in a good half hour.

"Ms. Carrington? We are about to arrive."

Trinity opened the box on the soft leather seat beside her. It had been left on her front stoop, unsignaled by knock or doorbell as if its very presence would alert her to such - which it admittedly had when her cane tapped it en route to the converted barn that housed her sculpting studio. The parcel was covered in smooth paper unmarred by postage or labelling, tied in a wide silk ribbon without any tag or other such form of address. Trinity thought it might have been mailed to the village postmaster by some odd sort with a fancy for posh surprises, some spendthrift seeking to jump her commission queue with a gift of gewgaws. Or perhaps it was a prank, which only served to deepen its intrigue.

The box was indeed intriguing, but not at all in jest, despite the joker within the hand of playing cards etched on its lid. It contained another sort of card with a lacy carved overlay that opened in the center, an enticing pair of doors. The Braille text inside was framed in swirls of filigree.

 _You are warmly invited to a masquerade ball_  
 _At the one and the only - The Sexy Brutale_

Trinity smiled as she wrapped her tongue around this name yet again. It was truly singular, luscious as velvet and sensual in its brashness. The estate house and casino of one Lucas Bondes, a gambling man who had demanded a bloody lot of Carrara marble in exchange for a far greater sum of money. Three years' toil, and then some, as his whims strung onto each other like carnival beads. Perhaps this invite was an apology more so than a bonus.

 _Indulge in our treasures, succumb to your vice_  
 _Our pleasures are naughty, but also quite nice_

If she had not known otherwise, Trinity might think she were being invited to another sort of private club featuring pleasures of the flesh and pain beyond the emptying of one's purse. Or that she might not wish to accept this invitation at all, given the quirks of some of her clients. Such as that nutter who had commissioned the seven princes of hell, Beelzebub and Belphegor and that whole lot, for his private chapel - never mind the irony of such an opulent Lucifer and Mammon condemning their respective sins of pride and greed. Said irony had financed a jaunt across the pond for a good long week of relaxation and a touch tour of art at the Smithsonian - and had served as a referral to Lucas, who seemed to take some pride in befriending such nutters - so Trinity took it with in stride with a smirk of appreciation.

 _Arrangements were made, transport will arrive_  
 _On the ninth of September, promptly at five_

And that had been it. No card for a response, no address or phone number or means of electronic communication. No question of whether she were available and interested to attend, only the implication that she would - an arrogance whose extravagant surety made it all the more tempting. Trinity thought she might receive train tickets, some other such itinerary. Instead this hired car had picked her up as stated for a direct and personal ride to the tumbling mouthful of a Suffolk village whose lord of the manor had built his home, hundreds of years ago, on the land where the Brutale now stood.

Trinity lifted her mask from its protective cloud of tissue paper. She fit it easily to her face with tactile appreciation for the delicate silk wings, the handsomely carved thorax, the pert pair of antennae. Fabric covered the holes, painted with the raised outline of its own pair of eyes. Perhaps this butterfly motif had been equally considered for her - a part she was to play, graceful and flitting and exploratory. Trinity supposed her sculptor's hands would suffice for grace. And she did love to wander - first to the chagrin of her parents, and now throughout the countryside, guiding herself home via stone paths and hedgerows and the sound of traffic along the lane.

Trinity had commissioned a gown just as bespoke from the Norwich dressmaker who handled her alterations. Something sumptuous and daring and bold, some salacity that would knock the jaws off the pompous rot with whom she was forced to socialize to keep her spendy contacts. Thus here she sat in the sleek embrace of satin, low on her chest and slit high to her hips - in fishnets and feathered gloves and a collar to match. Her hair, just trimmed and conditioned with hot oil, spilled below her waist in a silken waterfall. Trinity was cocooned in luxury, wings folded and waiting to soar.

Tires stopped on the gravel, doors opened and closed, idling engines rumbled back to life and moved on. Distant music filtered in, the lush meandering of smooth jazz. The car halted, and a valet opened Trinity's door. She took her cane, took a breath, and took the hand up and out.

* * *

"Ms. Trinity Carrington! Welcome, welcome, to The Sexy Brutale. What a joy it is to host you at last." Lucas Bondes kissed Trinity's hand, taken with permission, with genteel lips and the slightest tap that must have been the nose of his mask. "And what an honor for you to have accepted my humble invitation."

As a client, Lucas was a man of mystery. He requested ideas in vague and figurative form, refusing photos of Trinity's preliminary clay models so the result would remain a surprise - even though it would be one flipping expensive surprise after carved in full scale. This carnival ringmaster act was somehow expected, yet still stunning, every bit as humble - which was to say, not - as his invitation. Trinity smiled as words came back to her, as if Lucas were that much of a charmer, or perhaps even a hypnotist. Or both.

"With a poem like that, how could I refuse?"

"Some do, if you'll believe it. If only they had the smallest clue of the delights they were missing out on."

"Well, I'm more than happy to find out for them."

"You're a brave one, my dear, and just as exquisite as your artwork." Lucas offered an elbow to guide Trinity over the threshold. They stepped out of the evening chill into the warm embrace of murmurs and echoes and laughter, of perfume mingling with the ghosts of cigars. "As your statues grace these halls, so shall you as well."

Trinity had stock answers for every brand of polite flattery and an imagined parent over each shoulder reminding her to be modest and gracious, especially toward those with connections that might benefit her in the future. Against the sinuous bombast of Lucas' voice, that whole lot rang silly and false. Lucas kept worse company closer at hand. What would he do - turn around and ship her right back home?

"Do you whip those sorts of lines out for everyone, or am I just special?"

Lucas laughed. "I might say something similar to my goldsmith if he wore such a gown so well."

"Have you ever asked him to try one on for size?"

"That would be an extraordinary size. He doesn't exactly share your figure."

"I'd think my dressmaker could draw up a design to fit him. If nothing else, she'd see it as a challenge."

"Now that would be quite the bonus for his next commission."

Stone gave way to plush carpet, muffling the click of cane and heels. Up ahead was a thrilling syncopation of dinging bells, dice shaken and tossed, the burring spin of a ball. Trinity had placed her share of bets in smoky dens of wood and leather, her escape from vapid chatter in the frothy sort of parlor that would implode at the merest thought of flatulence. Men tended to underestimate her enough when they were sober. As the brandy flowed, they became downright stupid. An actual casino might not afford such opportunity. But it would be all polish and verve instead of creased cards and threadbare upholstery and a lethargic roulette wheel whose ball was literally dropped on the regular by whichever drunk happened to be running it.

"Was this the plan?" Trinity teased. "Take me right to the the tables and take all my money?"

"Not necessarily. You could take all of my money instead."

"That's unlikely to say the least."

"Yet not at all impossible. But really, though - if I did intend to fleece you, I would have first taken you to the bar. Poison your wits and loosen those purse strings and all."

Trinity's aperitif had long since worn off, and her mouth felt distractingly tasteless. "You know, I could use a drink."

"That can easily be arranged. So, what's your game? A spin of the slots? A rousing round of poker?"

"Fluttering about until I decide where to land." Trinity indicated her cane. "Or until I bump into something of interest."

"An adventurer and a comedian. You'll do very well for yourself here." Lucas chuckled. "Shall I set you free to spread those wings?"

"If you don't mind."

"Believe me, it is a pleasure."

Trinity released Lucas' arm and leaned idly on her cane, pondering her options as the sounds of the casino organized themselves by distance and direction. The zip and rattle of the roulette wheel began to call to her. It felt right, a natural followup to her remark about landing wherever - letting go and letting fly, and the chips to fall as they would.

Trinity moved into an open spot at the roulette table rail as the croupier called out for the others to make room. A passing waiter offered a drink on the house, a unique and potent specialty. She tried to make sense of the strange cocktail - Spider's Kiss, as it was named - and thought to start small with odds just below even. A modest cash outlay, a short stack of chips. A bet on red to hopefully boot her into the black.

Black won. Trinity placed her next chips to follow. The ball dropped red. Trinity went to even. The wheel took its time, drawing out the drama. After an age and a half during which Trinity thought she identified the tastes of cranberries and peppercorn, the ball bounced home. Zero.

To hell with the long game of being lucky to come out ahead. To hell with the whims of this bastard wheel, one step ahead of Trinity and waggling a fifty-pound note at her on a string around the next corner. With a grandiose declaration, she placed all her chips on good old unlucky thirteen. A two-finger salute to go bust with a bang - or revel in the irony of her fortune turning on this dime.

Thirty-six to one did as expected. Trinity asked for directions to the card room, torn between the strategy of poker and the simplicity of blackjack, which did have its optional challenges and commensurate rewards. A hand in her luck either way, perhaps some competition as well - and plenty more casino to explore if those odds failed her once again.

Trinity took a slow tour around the tables, sipping a Blood and Bone - which thankfully tasted of neither, or at least her vague idea of such repugnance. A sharp flutter of cards jolted her with a surprising thrill. She turned toward this precise and upbeat rhythm with a curious tilt of her chin, wondering if the croupier were showing off audibly for her to enjoy as well.

"Madame Butterfly! Would you like to join us? This seat won't be open for long."

That warm, gentle hand of a voice drew Trinity right onto a plush velvet stool neatly described to her. She bought a larger stack of chips this time, parking her cane and drink as the croupier paused to switch over to Braille decks.

"Should I know you? I'm not sure we've met."

"We haven't." Trinity smiled, and a sashay crept into her words. "This is my first time."

"At blackjack, or this establishment?"

So polite. So professional. Rather disappointing. "I've played a hand or two, just not here."

"Welcome to the club. If you excuse my being a joker, you'll enjoy yourself in spades."

Trinity raised a brow, hidden though it was. "I'm not sure if I should laugh or groan."

"Whichever you like, no offense taken either way. Do you need a refresher on the rules?"

"They're simple, are they not? Twenty-one is good - more than that, not so much."

"You can also split your pairs or double. Shall I explain?"

Trinity felt herself crossing that line between cheekily downplaying her skills and an outright guise of naivete. She had a twinge of guilt, as this fellow seemed upright enough, but the fun of her act was starting to grow legs. "I'll just stick with the basics for now."

"Sounds fine for a start." Amusement crept into the croupier's voice. "Your takeaway, then - don't hit too hard."

Trinity played her first few rounds cautiously, matching the croupier's own rules with that exact advice. Hit up to seventeen. Stay on anything above. He narrated the proceedings, punctuated with more fancy shuffling - a waterfall of cards, a whispered spread across the baize. His banter was smart yet casual, sometimes so corny that Trinity laughed despite herself, and with only the slightest poke of fun at a bad hand. Too wary of being rude, perhaps, but she began to find that endearing.

Trinity sipped her drink, reminding herself to slow down and keep her wits about her. "Come to think of it, perhaps you should know me."

"How so?"

"There are a few marble statues around here with my name on them."

A long pause. "Carrington? That's some incredible work. Rather disturbing at times, but that's Lucas for you. This place is his bazaar of the bizarre."

"Disturbing was just what he asked for. So thank you, and right on." She reached out across the table. "Trinity Carrington, to be precise."

"Redd Rockridge." His broad, firm hand nearly swallowed hers. He shook with just enough strength to respect whatever she might give back, and what seemed to be much more in reserve. "Sorry if I seemed a tad shocked just now."

"That I'm blind?"

"That Lucas wasn't lying about your - condition. If it makes for a good story, he'll stretch the truth until it snaps."

"I'm surprised you aren't accusing me of lying about my work."

"I might be a skeptic, but I'm also a pianist. I don't look at my hands. It's all muscle memory, sometimes a bit of touch to keep my bearings. I imagine you feel your way around as well."

"Oh, that I do."

Redd ignored Trinity's tone - still professional to such a fault, or perhaps simply oblivious - and cashed out the chips of the player departing to her left. A low grumble came from over her shoulder, followed by the slam of a drink on the railing and irregular creaks of the stool as its occupant, reeking of cheap tobacco, made a pompous show of settling in.

"Mr. Cobb." Redd sounded a touch weary. "Welcome back."

"Take a leak, lose your seat, is that right? Should I have pissed on the table instead?"

"You shouldn't have fallen in. You had ten minutes. It's been an hour. You know the rules."

"Rules, schmules. If fair was fair around here, I'd own that seat by now. My name in gold plate."

"Put your request in writing." The sarcasm dripped. "I'll be glad to pass it upstream."

Perhaps this Mr. Cobb went well back with the Brutale, perhaps much further than Redd. Perhaps Lucas owed him certain favors. Or perhaps he simply lost enough money to be worth the irritation of keeping the cash flowing. Regardless, Trinity recognized him as just another breed of the standard lout entrenched in every social circle she was privy to, a tumor that could never be excised. The only recourse was to tolerate him - ideally at his expense.

Redd seemed to relax throughout the subsequent rounds. As he dealt another, his voice took a sudden edge. "Eyes on your cards, Mr. Cobb."

A low mutter, only just audible. _Like she'll even notice. And like she's good for anything else._

When her jack was paired with an eight, Trinity hid a smile. Her left hand raised her drink for a lengthy swig. With equal panache, her right waved for another card. If this twit wanted a show, she was eager to oblige.

Redd failed to conceal a note of surprise. "Are you certain?"

"I've played it too safe. It's time I switch up my strategy." Trinity inflated her next words with drama. "And so I dare these cards to defy me."

"You're hitting like my brother, then. That's more than a bit painful."

"For me, or for you?"

Redd flipped a third card well over the edge. With an airy shrug, Trinity put in more chips for the next round.

Just as she had hoped for, another grumble. _Daft little bird, can't even count._ Then a slap on the rail - and a touch of satisfaction in Redd's announcement of the card - as Mr. Cobb hit too high himself.

A thrill crawled up Trinity's spine at the unwitting prescience of those words. She had first counted cards on a lark, amusing herself as her table mates prattled on with the cheap sort of bawdiness that lacked any actual spice. She ended up winning back the price of the dress she had bought for that party. Further research had taught her systems beyond her offhand tally, even good across multiple decks, but the effort seemed wasted on tosspots who forgot their own hands more often than not. Here she saw a new challenge. A chance to give this wanker what for, though she knew the entire point was to not get caught - which, of course, was all part of the fun. She would however be pulling one over on Redd, who had done nothing wrong apart from possibly being too nice. But he was the house, and the house usually won.

When the decks were shuffled back for the next round, a mental ball began to spin. Even or odd. Heaven or hell. Play nice with Redd - or go for a tweak of Cobb's knob.

Well, Lucas had hinted that she might win big.

* * *

Clay plucked yet another sheet of the morning newspaper long since read through twice over, some bit about the Berney Brograve he had only just learned was an actual person rather than playground ghost story bollocks. He wadded it up, firmly and deliberately, like the collar of some tosser out to sneak himself a handful of chips or wallet or sequined arse and thus earning a hard fast trip outside for his efforts. There should have been some such foolishness by now, this far into a night where free booze poured like rain over a handpicked hodgepodge of the barmy toffs and dodgy sorts Lucas pegged as interesting enough to fill a guest list. Instead Clay was building a paper ball pyramid in the dull grey light of his monitor bank. He wanted to be a guest of the masquerade for once instead of squirreled away back here in his hidey hole until he had to go knock some heads together. He wanted to play a round or three, maybe to have a good poke at the worst of Redd's puns. He really wanted a drink, though he bloody well knew how much trouble that was on the job. If only some actual trouble came up - at least that would be interesting.

But this night hadn't all been a trip to the library, though Redd would have given Clay an elbow for putting it in those terms. There were the masks, custom to their wearers rather than the bog standard sort that casino guests could borrow for a slice of that Carnivale fun. And the fancy dress - except for Redd, whose idea of formality was adding a cravat to those sweater vests he had been wearing since he went away to uni while Clay was fighting his way up through the bareknuckle brackets.

And then there was that woman strolling about, all long limbs and supple curves and tight black satin flashing glimpses of stocking lace. When she walked in on Lucas' arm, Clay wrote her off as his latest conquest. Redd said he talked like a punch to the mouth, and his face bore the rifts from the same he had taken in the ring - like any of that would hold up against a marquis who could charm the knickers off a nun. Then Clay saw that her mask had no eyes, her cane was feeling out the floor, and she was off on her own at first chance.

Five of Spades poked his head in, a staffer in one of those playing card masks crossing anonymity with a way to call for one's particular attention. He turned toward the stack of paper. "Never knew you were an architect."

"I am now. Better that than a chair warmer, huh?"

"Somebody's got to hold it down."

"I guess so. I'm not holding down much of anything else right now."

"A bit of a shite night, isn't it? I've got that sort of problem. Floating around with no work to pick up for me to look busy." Five of Spades shrugged. "Unless you happen to be sitting on something."

Clay nudged his arm rest. "You're looking right at it."

"You know, that's not a bad idea. Want to pop off to the loo? I'll park myself in here, keep an eye out. Build you a Hadrian's Wall to keep out the - whoever's going after your pyramid."

Clay wanted to pop off to something else, and he bit his tongue hard enough to derail that train of thought. That was no way to think about a woman he hadn't even met, and who looked to be having a nice chat with Redd anyhow. Not that Redd ever took any of his admirers back to their flat - or even for drinks, as far as Clay could tell - but he would be the last man to roadblock his own brother when it finally happened. He still wanted to talk to her, no harm in a friendly hello - with that confident way she moved, maybe his voice wouldn't scare her off after all. But what would he say? _I've seen you around - on my security monitors._ Creepy.

"I'll buzz you if there's a problem." Five of Spades settled in as Clay took a moment to stretch. "What am I looking out for, exactly?"

"The usual. Grabby fingers, rough arguments, blokes swapping cards under the table. You'll know it when you see it." Still with an eye on that satin sylph, Clay took a sudden and much closer look. "Unless you won't."

Redd had reached up and tapped a curved horn of his ram mask. He took pride in handling himself - subtly and diplomatically, as he said - rather than calling in Clay, who he nicknamed the nuclear option. The bulk of his towering shoulders scared off most offenses before they started, never mind that he hated to lay a rough hand on anyone. But his table was stuck with a certain smelly prat who kept popping back up on the guest list like a mole to be whacked. Mr. Cobb wasn't the worst of the high rollers Lucas put up with for their loose and oft emptied wallets, but he was a reliable pain in the arse who acted like the house should be wiping his own with its collective tongue. At least Mr. Cobb had kept his trousers on this time, in contrast to an occasion when Clay had thrown both him and said garment into a lavatory for reassembly. Maybe he had found some other way to break the generous limits of Redd's patience.

Or maybe not, as Clay counted Redd's raised fingers. The piss artist wasn't the problem. Rather, she sat to his right.

Ms. Mystery.

"Hold the fort. I'm going in."

* * *

"Nineteen high. Trinity wins again." Redd slid her the payout with a note of wonder. "I've never put stock in beginner's luck, but this streak is giving me second thoughts."

"Or you're giving her all the good cards." Mr. Cobb rifled out a wad of bills. "Looking to get lucky yourself?"

"I'm looking to start the next round in about ten seconds. Buy in now, or stay behind."

"'Stay behind', says the man dumping rubbish on me all night. Whose fault is that now?" An abrupt stacking of chips. "Joke's on you, boyo. I'm about to catch up."

Trinity rode even higher on this latest outburst of hot air, which Mr. Cobb had long since given up on keeping under his breath. Redd was dealing two decks, which made her think a bit harder, but she had been staying on the count and fortunate enough to turn a profit. Though perhaps too much too quickly, as Redd's surprise seemed to verge on suspicion. The edge of this shuffle was turning toward the house, and so would the winds of fortune blow elsewhere.

"Well, best of luck to you, fine sir," Trinity proclaimed with equally strong doses of grandeur and insincerity. With a considered hand, she placed the minimum bet. "I just might be done pushing my own."

Redd's words began to take a wary edge. "Then wouldn't you rather cash out?"

"That would be sensible, now, wouldn't it?" Trinity feigned a long swallow of her drink - a Fang of the Viper, gin spiked with spices that lingered on her tongue and deceptively bloomed in her stomach. "But I'm in too deep now to pull out before I've finished."

Still so professional - and clearly not oblivious in that regard. "Carry on as you are, then."

Trinity lost that hand and the next, and she won the last by sheer accident for which she merrily credited her cocktail. She expected the proverbial angel on her shoulder to repeat Redd's words, to suggest she end on this convenient high note and quit while ahead. Instead she heard the twin whispers of her own Lucifer and Mammon, delighting in that she was still getting away with it - and there was much more to be won.

Redd shuffled back the decks in a brutally percussive flurry. His efficiency almost sounded annoyed, and Trinity wondered if this was more on her than her bloviating neighbor. She thought to just play, just like normal, allow herself a hand or three and then relax at the bar with her profits. But the numbers continued to stack in her head, and the small cards came early and often, and the count began to tilt hard and fast against the house.

One more round. That was all. Trinity ponied up half her chips to make it a meaningful end.

Seven and four made eleven, and the count of tens fit on one hand.

Trinity doubled down. Go bold and go out with a bang, however the fates chose to spin it. A big show to end this little charade.

Redd took a hit and reached twenty. The man to Trinity's right folded. When Trinity was dealt a queen, her dizzying cloud of euphoria nearly muted the tantrum of Mr. Cobb going bust yet again.

Redd gave congratulations on every round he lost, even to the likes of Mr. Cobb. This time, he was silent. A gravelly voice approached Trinity from behind, all business and machismo.

"Big winner, huh? Let's go get you all cashed out."


	2. Truth and Consequences

"I'm not cashing out, then, am I?"

Trinity felt the need to ask although the answer had been made clear enough by the gruffness in that strong and confrontational voice. Redd's silence underscored it with emphasis as he led her back through the main hall, whose earlier excitement and bustle had mellowed into the murmur of relaxed conversation.

"May I ask where we're going?"

"Nowhere I want you to worry about. Just for a walk and a talk about your betting habits."

Trinity realized the nervous quickening of her words too late to put on the brakes. "I was lucky. Very lucky. That was all."

"You were handling those cards like an expert. Not like someone who maybe played a round or two at some point."

"As you know, I'm a sculptor." A light and dismissive laugh. "Dexterity just comes naturally."

Redd did not return the sentiment. "As you also know, I'm a pianist. I still had to put in my card practice. I still do."

"Playing is easier than dealing, isn't it? Some things are picked up faster than others."

"And other things are picked up on by those who have seen them all before."

Redd paused to unlock a door, which opened with a slight squeal. They entered a room of eternal spring, warm and humid and fragrant with a delicate potpourri of blossoms. Redd led them to sit on a wrought metal bench beside a gently flowing fountain. Insectile feet flitted onto Trinity's arm, taking pause as if approving of her mask's motif.

"This is lovely," Trinity breathed.

"Isn't it, though? Better than some musty old back room."

"So I'm not in an awful heap of trouble?"

"I can't say right now, but I can say there's no point in making it any worse."

Trinity considered and discarded some whimsical deflection which most definitely would make it worse. The compassion in Redd's tone began to dig at her, stripping away her last veneer of caprice. She had cheated. She had taken advantage of a man who had only ever wanted to show her an honest good time. And still Redd was concerned for her comfort, putting her in this private solace instead of embarrassed and on edge. When Trinity found her voice again, it was already starting to break.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to get so caught up in this." Trinity blinked back that first swell of tears. "It wasn't personal at all."

"I didn't think it was."

"It's just - the temptation, you know? It's like a freight train, or a snowball rolling downhill. The more it goes on, the harder it is to stop."

"Is that how it works?" Redd laughed. "No wonder Clay got into enough fights to make a career of it."

Trinity quizzically cocked her head.

"My brother, otherwise known as that frightful voice that sneaked up on you."

Trinity recalled how Clay's words had sent a shudder through her, and not just from the threat of consequence. They were indeed rough and tough - but straight up and surefooted, confident strikes of a coarsely hewn hammer. "I've heard worse."

"Try about twenty-five years of being teased with that. Trust me, it gets old."

"Can I guess which one of you made all the trouble in the family?"

"Most of it. Clay was first in line for mischief, but there was a little left over for me."

"Just a little?"

"Depends on who you ask."

The conservatory door opened, followed by deliberate footsteps and the voice that Trinity could now put a name to. "Got your table covered, got our pet trouser tosser away to the bar while I was at it. You're welcome."

Redd echoed that amicable sarcasm. "Thanks for the chance to say thanks."

"Just having a laugh, bruv. Unclench yourself sometime. It's good for your health."

"Mind your manners. That's even better."

"Oh. Right. Of course." Clay turned to Trinity, presenting himself with enough bombast that she had to swallow a smile. "Clay Rockridge, head of security and knocker of heads. Well, maybe not yours." An afterthought - "Definitely not yours."

"That's rather a relief." Trinity stood and offered a shake. "Trinity Carrington. Professional sculptor, amateur troublemaker."

Clay took her hand as if unsure whether to cradle it or crush it. Trinity squeezed with full force, feeling as if she were trying to squash a callused hunk of marble, and received surprising warmth in return.

"Don't mean to be in and out like this, but me and Redd need to have a little one on one. Are you all right to sit tight?"

Trinity nodded, appreciating all this innuendo, whether or not it was deliberate. Perhaps Clay had been first in line for that as well - unless Redd really was that professional, or simply disinterested for more personal reasons.

"So you're a poet, now?" Redd joked. "That's new."

"Don't sell me short in front of a lady. I've got plenty more where that came from."

"None of which are good for polite company."

Trinity smiled as her mouth felt safe to run away again. "I'm polite? That's also new."

"Come on, Clay." Redd moved toward the door with a laugh. "Let's go before I change my mind."

* * *

Clay and Redd took over two chairs in the great hall next to the glass wall of the conservatory. Trinity was making a slow circle of it, calm as any day tripper stopping in to smell the flowers when Lucas opened the Brutale up for tours - a relief, though not exactly a surprise. Redd hated to put fear into people. Clay had to actively force himself not to, and he had never quite gotten the hang of such. He had tried to approach Trinity gently and still sounded like he was taking her out to the woodshed. If he had been the one to go in there with her, he might have gotten a snapped confession instead of a reported apology - or left Trinity shaking on her bench in a loop of equally dodgy lies.

Redd leaned back pensively, looking off at some conversation between a fairy, a rainbow, and a unicorn as if Trinity would otherwise feel his eyes on her. "We should ask her to leave."

"We should."

"Talk to a valet, ask if she's staying here. If so, have them find her a room in the village if she lives too far to travel back tonight."

Clay hadn't thought that far ahead, and he internally kicked himself for his stupidity. Usually, trouble went out the door - whether willingly, forcibly, or with an up close and personal introduction to his fist or the flagstone walkway - and that was that. But none of said trouble had been blind, or anywhere near this stunning. "That's smart."

"So why don't we, then?"

Clay knew that tone all too well - Redd's way of dancing around with questions instead of just spitting it out like he ought to. "You tell me, bruv."

"On one hand, she made a good run on my table. If I'm to work toward a promotion, I can't be losing money like this."

"We took back her big win, though. That takes care of your numbers. Sort of, at least."

"But what about the rules? I can't be losing my respectability, either, by letting this sort of thing slide."

"If you want to go there - Lucas said the house is all fine and dandy with cheating as long as you don't get caught."

Redd snorted. "That's tautological, isn't it?"

"English, Redd."

"Dictionary, Clay. Use your fancy new phone for something more than just sports scores. And besides, she was caught, so that's moot."

Clay started to take another crack at Redd pulling out his big words yet again and decided it wasn't worth the bother. "So she cheated, and if she stays, you'll get this big fat black mark on your record. Or at least that's what you think. Then what's the holdup?"

"For one thing, she really did sound sorry." Redd's mouth quirked up into a half smile. "And she's a bad enough actor for me to believe her."

Clay continued to challenge Redd out of habit. He was the hardass, Redd the soft heart, and that was just how it was. He started to realize that he was fishing for backup, a green light to loosen up his own harsh repute - just this once for just this guest. "Sorry doesn't fix what you were complaining about before."

"Maybe not, but she did have her own way of helping with that. Mr. Cobb is profit even when he's lucky. Tonight, though - he threw all sense to the wind as he kept on losing to a woman."

"He has sense?"

"Not really. He also found Trinity more than a little distracting. His eyes kept wandering about where you'd expect them to."

A fiercely protective rage spiked in Clay's stomach. "Why didn't you say something? I would have gone nuclear on him back there, and you know it."

"And you know I can take care of my business." Redd - not always the best actor himself - put on a sly expression that screamed out the sleight of hand he was trying to hint at. "Let's just say he went bust every time he stared at hers."

Clay laughed, partly at Redd's idea of defending a lady's honor. "So much for the rules, huh?"

"They can be flexible at times."

"Well, this is another one of those times, don't you think?"

"You're head of security." And giving it right back at him from before - "You tell me, bruv."

Clay felt that thrill of a win, although it was really just an agreement. He had gotten exactly what he wanted - Redd dumping the decision in his lap with more than enough support for the conclusion he had already come to himself.

"Let her stay. Keep her off the tables, but that's no problem. She'll find plenty else to do. Go dancing. Go wander around and catch some craziness."

"Go to the library - there's a whole section of Braille rarities."

Clay scoffed. "Of course that's where you'd be when there's a party like this going on."

"Dealing means dealing with people. I need my time to recharge."

"What do you think the bar's for?" A flash of inspiration. "Huh. That's not a bad idea."

"The library?" Redd teased.

"That's the worst idea. You know what I mean. And what I mean is -" Clay steeled himself to let this slip away from him. With the way Trinity and Redd had been getting along, it was only fair. "Why don't you buy her a drink? Try to patch up this night for you both?"

"I have a table to run."

"What's-his-face of Diamonds can stay on it until midnight."

Once more, with emphasis. "I have a table to run."

Clay had fought back an urge to kick Redd for flushing his shot down the shitter. Suddenly he wanted to hug him, right here in public even. Redd wasn't being shy. He was being clear. He and Trinity had nothing going on after all.

"Yeah. You do, don't you?" Clay gulped, getting up the guts to say it. "I wonder if she'll let me buy her one."

Redd's voice took on that edge toward lecture mode. Bad Clay, no drinky. "You're still working."

"I'm almost done. I can cut out a little early. It's a slow night - except for this, but eh. It'll be fine."

"As long as you mind yourself. Don't turn a shot or two into five or ten and then pass out in the wrong guest room."

Clay grinned. "But what if that's the right guest room, if you catch my drift?"

"Caution, Clay. Don't count your chips before you double down."

"Faith, Redd. Have a little in me, why don't you?"

"Let me guess." Redd put a hand to his chin, pretending to think deeply. "You're a lover, not just a fighter?"

Clay gave him a punch in the arm before getting up. "It's almost like you know me."

* * *

Trinity stayed on her bench just long enough for the conservatory door to lock behind Clay and Redd. Not that she had anywhere to dash off to, but it only seemed fair to show Redd her best behavior after his disappointment so readily eased back into kindliness. His banter with Clay, brief as it was, eased her nerves as well. As did the flowers that she languidly wandered through, a peculiar melange of scents that almost seemed to be intoxicating her.

The door unlatched, and Trinity awaited Redd's reassuring footsteps. When Clay stomped toward her instead, all that relief scattered along with the calm of the conservatory. Perhaps she was in for it after all.

Or, at the very least, a lot of awkward nothing. Trinity wasn't sure where Clay had stopped, how far he was from her. Still his presence seemed close and tangible, looming like a bulwark, though Trinity found it more so amusing as he continued to stand there in silence. That proud introduction earlier, that purposeful entrance just moments ago, and now there was nothing to be heard but the fountain.

"Are you all right over there?" Trinity finally asked with what she hoped was all sincerity and no sass.

"I was going to ask you the same thing. I didn't mean to scare you just now. Or back at Redd's table, for that matter." An afterthought - "I didn't, did I?"

That question was unintentionally challenging enough to be cute. "You rather are right now although you're trying so hard not to."

"Ugh. Sorry about that. I really don't know where to start this sort of a talk."

"Do you want to start over?"

A long pause, a reply with the stunned glee of a child invited to take their pick at Hamleys. "Can I?"

"Go right ahead."

Trinity expected Clay to gather himself, clear his throat, begin anew. Instead he went back outside and closed the door. He reopened it with the quietest delicacy, as if unlatching the cage of a rare and fragile bird.

"Hello there, Ms. Carrington."

Trinity smiled. "You can call me Trinity if I can call you Clay."

"Done deal. Anyway - this night. It didn't go like you hoped it would, did it? You came here to have some fun, and you got all this instead."

A nod. "That's about right."

"Redd told me about that talk you had in here. Every single word."

Trinity tensed up. Secondhand retellings tended to have their warts and divots magnified, relayed in terms with unwittingly warped connotations. Redd would have meant well, but what if Clay had gotten the wrong idea?

"He said you're sorry it happened, you didn't mean it in a bad way. Hell - heck - you didn't even mean it at all. You just got caught up in it and kept on going. You know what? I believe him - and you."

Another challenge, but then answered - a one-two punch of relief that knocked out a breath Trinity only then realized she was holding.

"You know what else? That happens to the best of us, too." Clay blurted out a followup. "Not that you're the worst or anything."

Clay hadn't come in here to deliver the worst, but he was still a bundle of nerves. Perhaps he normally handled such matters with a scruff of the collar and a boot to the arse, and the talking approach was all new to him. Perhaps Trinity was having some other effect. Or perhaps just the dress, but that rugged voice, so raw in its honesty and tempered with eagerness to please, began to give her hope that there might be more to it - and that it was there in the first place.

"So, back to what I was saying before. I'm no time lord, and it is getting late. But this night's not over yet." Clay paused as if searching for words again. "Maybe I could turn it around for you. Or at least give it a try."

"What did you have in mind?"

"How about we have some fun together? Just the two of us? Oh, wait, that sounds bad."

Trinity's voice of propriety squawked that she didn't know this man in any meaningful sense, that curiosity about arbitrary roughnecks was for schoolgirls half her age, that this blooming tease of intrigue was no more than relief at avoiding punishment. The rest of her pointed out that she was hardly in for a wedding, or even an engagement. Just a date, if that - an hour or two at the end of an evening that would naturally cap off the whole matter if it fell flat on its face.

Out came the vocal sashay. "Actually, it sounds good to me."

"It does? You didn't even ask what we're doing."

"No time like the present. What are we doing? Or is it a surprise?"

"I was thinking I could go for a drink right about now."

"What a coincidence. So was I." Trinity smiled. "Great minds think alike, don't they?"

"If you're talking about me, I wouldn't go that far."

* * *

Clay's elbow was a head lower to the ground than Redd's, his arm similarly thick with muscle. He took slow and cautious steps as if fearing he would drag Trinity along. She almost dragged him instead until he learned to match her pace. But he learned fast and well, and soon they were strolling with the smooth and upbeat rhythm of the walking bass line from the jazz combo starting up in the great hall.

The bar was a haze of murmurs and cigar smoke spangled with the clink of glass and the odd conversational spike into laughter. Clay settled them into a corner booth of tufted leather, calling over wait staff as Trinity sank into this smooth luxury.

"Line up the usual, Mr. Rockridge, sir?"

"Nah, just one. Let's make it a shot to remember. Something bonkers and wild. Something brand new to me."

"With all due respect, that last bit's a tall order."

"I know you'll deliver. The bartender's ace. He'll hit me with a jackpot, I'm sure." Clay laughed. "Sounded like Redd for a second there. Do I get a triple word score for all that?"

"I'll ask my supervisor. What can I bring you, Ms.-"

"Carrington," Trinity offered. "I didn't have anything particular in mind."

Clay piped up. "You said something about surprises. You like those, don't you?"

"Of course, if there's some hope that I'll enjoy them."

"Well, I can't speak for a drink I've never tried. But I have a pretty good idea that it's going to be a trip."

"That sounds enjoyable enough." Trinity turned to the waiter. "Make that another of what he's having, please."

"Whoa. Hang on a minute. You sure you want to go for that?" Clay asked. "A slug for me might be more of a knockout for you."

Trinity's last drink had long since worn off, and she would hardly be the only one here apt to sleep a bit late the next morning. "I'll risk it."

"Just don't go passing out on me or anything, all right?"

"Or what?" Trinity teased.

"Or you'll have one stiff neck tomorrow morning, unless you want me to haul you upstairs."

Trinity thrilled at the imagined experience of being carried in those powerful arms, even if she were barely awake to enjoy the ride. "Haul away. I trust you not to drop me."

"I wouldn't. And you know I would bloody well never -" Clay stopped short as if that pointed word of violence tasted foul on his tongue. "You know."

Such cautions remained in the back of Trinity's mind at events involving barrels of booze and an overnight stay. Tonight, their warning signals were silent. Clay was a man with the physical and professional power to take as he wanted. He respected Redd's opinions as well as the wait staff - and with her, he had only ever asked.

"I do. And I trust you not to do - that, either."

"Good. I'd rather throw myself out of the clock tower face first."

The waiter set a glass before each of them. Trinity reached to raise hers. Clay abruptly told her to leave it, and she smelled the burning sprig before he finished his sentence.

"I've never had a drink with rosemary before, much less a flaming one. You weren't joking about bonkers and wild."

"I wasn't. Here. Let me fish that out for you so you don't get burned."

With a sharp hiss and muffled curse, Clay did just that to himself while removing their garnishes. Trinity comforted him and lifted her cocktail again. Clay tapped his glass to hers, and with great ceremony, she took her first sip. It was all smoke and spice, a sweet and exotic fire with a potent foundation that Trinity began to think might be absinthe.

"I have to say, you've got some serious balls - uh, guts. First you try to sneak one past my little brother, and now you're out to match my liver."

Redd obviously wasn't little in the physical sense. Trinity guessed that he must be younger, and Clay thought that was a funny way to say it. His fresh hesitation at the tamest of taboo words was even more amusing.

"You can say balls. See? I just did." In cheery singsong - "Balls, balls, balls."

"Man, that sounds funny coming out of your mouth."

Trinity smiled sweetly. "Wait till you see what goes into my mouth." She took a demure sip of her drink as Clay sputtered on his, coughing for a few moments until he settled himself.

"You know what? You are one sassy lassie."

"Did you expect something different?"

"Yeah. I did. You're just so posh, you know? I never thought somebody like you would be fine with talk like that." A nervous pause. "Or with somebody like me."

"Why not? It's been fun so far."

"Like I said, you're posh. I'm not. You're an artist. I'm a prize fighter - well, I was. I barely made it through secondary and only because Redd threatened to drop me if I dropped out. And he hates violence - I could never talk him into training with me for the ring - so you get how major that is."

Trinity nodded.

"So here you are, all sophisticated, and my claim to fame is beating blokes up. You can guess what that's done to my face." Clay gave a self-deprecating laugh. "So I guess it helps that you can't see me."

Trinity had learned facial structure from copies of classical busts described as beautiful, desirable, iconic. The features of her subjects would diverge, sometimes greatly, in shape and size and distance. Even so, each irregularity and asymmetry carried its own interest - first to replicate, then to run her fingers over as part of its whole.

"I could get enough of an idea for my purposes. I might even like that idea more than you think."

"What would you do? Feel me up?"

"Actually, yes."

"Huh. I was wondering how that worked. Now that's something I'd like to see."

"I'd need my studio for that. For now, I could give you a tour of my art." Trinity offered. "Pick a statue - any statue. Just take me to it. I'll happily talk your ear off about the process. These took so bloody long, I still remember every step."

"Soon as we're finished here, then. This drink needs to be savored." Clay snorted. "I never say that. Ever. What's gotten into me?"

"Absinthe?" A cheeky thought sprang to mind along with Trinity's confirmation of that taste. "But of course we can take our time. I have a request of you anyhow."

Clay waited for her to ask.

"If I'm to show you one of mine, I want to see one of yours."

"What's that?"

"One of those poems you were mentioning to Redd."

Clay said nothing.

"Come on," Trinity prodded. "I'd love to hear one."

"You really wouldn't."

"How do you know? Try me."

Another long pause, followed by a resigned sigh. "All right. Fine. But don't act like I didn't warn you. And don't tell Redd I forgot my manners."

Trinity gathered herself with all the poise and attention befitting a front row seat to the London symphony.

"There once was a beautiful lass. Who had a magnificent -" Clay cut himself off. "No. Just no. I'm nowhere near drunk enough for this."

Trinity had heard this one a thousand times over along with countless others in that vein. She took a slow pull of her cocktail, letting Clay stew for a good long moment. "'Twas not perky or pink as you'd probably think. It was grey, had long ears, and ate grass."

The ensuing silence was enough of an anvil that Trinity imagined the sound of Clay's jaw literally striking the table.

"You really are full of surprises, aren't you?"

Trinity smiled. "I've only just begun."

* * *

Clay walked tall and proud on their long way through the ground floor. Maybe it was the absinthe - which Trinity had agreed was the base of that Brimstone Bacchanal, as the bartending Ace of Spades decided to name it - or the noise and press of a crowd's second wind before the midnight end of festivities. Either way, Trinity was drawing in close with a playful smile and a squeeze of his arm instead of that businesslike hold from before. Never mind that Clay was more so Trinity's guide, and that his screaming red luchador mask was one hell of a mismatch for the delicate green wings of her own. When they strolled past the blackjack tables, the slow spread of Redd's grin told him just how good they looked together - and just how high he was floating.

"So, Clay. How did somebody like you, as you put it, end up in a place like this?"

"Luck, pretty much. Prize fighting's not a steady paycheck, so I'd also been working as a bouncer. Just went where I was needed, you know? So I heard from a guy that some crazy rich bloke named Lucas Bondes needed temporary staff for some crazy rich party, and I figured I'd go get a look at the high life for once. When Lucas found out I came with a story, he asked me to come back full time."

"I'm sure that your performance also had something to do with that."

Clay laughed, remembering that particular night. "It did - but at the same time, that also had to do with my story. Some drunkard knew who I was, and he and his buddies went to jump me for a laugh. Didn't think I was that big of a deal, but whatever. I dropped them, one by one. Laid them out like a miserable hand of jokers."

Trinity smiled. "Sounds like the joke was on them."

"Yeah, and a few more times over than they expected. What about you and this sculpting business? How did you get into that?"

"Excellent teachers, relenting parents who were glad for something to make me sit still - at least until I decided it was as impossible as they originally insisted. Which, of course, only drove me to it even further."

"You don't like being told what to do, huh?"

"I don't like being told what I can do - or not. But I do love to prove that I'm right."

"From what's coming up ahead, looks to me like you've done exactly that."

"What can I say?" Trinity shrugged. "I'm good with my hands."

Clay had led them to a hallway between the casino and the theater. A marble woman knelt starkers with hands between her thighs and her head thrown back in a frozen gasp, atop a pile of cards as if simultaneously cursing them and having herself a good screw. Her chest was on brazen display, her mask marked with the raised tracks of tears.

"Go on. It's right in front of you."

Trinity let go of Clay's arm and found her way to the statue. Her cane traced the shape of its small pedestal, halfway measured its height. Trinity bent down to run a light hand over the pedestal rim, trailing fingers along the edge of the card pile. "A queen of broken hearts and scattered dreams, crying out to the heavens in despair of gathering herself into a full deck." She grinned. "You had to pick the most naked of the lot, didn't you?"

Clay flushed, both from this insinuation and the embarrassment of his unspoken rudeness. His streak of snap judgment - skeptical to him, cynical to Redd - had been calling bollocks ever since Trinity introduced herself. Maybe she gave the heavy lifting to assistants and took a few finishing whacks with the chisel. Or maybe she had read about the Brutale's art collection on some odd news site or caught an estate tour on the telly, studying up to bluster along if necessary. But Trinity had described this statue like an old friend from a few cane taps and the barest skim of fingers - as if she had, in fact, been the one to create it.

"I'm glad you did. This one's my favorite - partly because you know how I am with cards."

"It's definitely - interesting."

"Disturbing, isn't it? That's how Redd put it."

"You could say that." Clay refused to admit the disturbance he was starting to feel in his trousers - not so much from the statue's purposefully blocky anatomy as from Trinity's delight in its creation, her pride in its boldness.

"That's what Lucas asked me to show - the agony and ecstasy of gambling. The debauchery and despair, the reveling and ruin."

"Did he specifically ask for the, uh, burlesque factor?"

"I told you literally all Lucas told me, in those exact words. He refused to talk in specifics, so I thought I'd have a bit of fun. It was his money to gamble with, after all. My very first subject was also naked, wrapped around a large pair of dice made to look like skulls."

"Oh, one of those two outside the theater," Clay recalled.

"Which leads me to the next part of my story. The crazy bastard loved it so much, he asked for a second. A mirror image, almost. And another, and so on, and each time I worked to outdo myself with the flesh and emotion. This one was the last." Trinity smiled. "But from Lucas' reaction, I don't expect it to be final."

"How are you going to top that one?"

"With energy and enthusiasm. I expect it will be a stimulating experience."

Clay had flushed again at his carelessness of letting out such a remark by accident. Burning even brighter as Trinity ran away with it, he decided to switch to a less loaded subject.

"So how do you make something like this, anyway?"

"I get it all into my head, build a small model, feel it all out - honestly, it's easier just to show you."

"You said you needed your studio for that."

"Of course. Where do you live, anyhow?"

"Norwich." And to make his availability crystal clear - "With Redd."

"Oh! That's not far at all. You should stop by sometime."

"I hope you mean that, because I'd really like to see that."

"I'm glad." Trinity's tone was light and playful. "Because I want to see if you're as much of a blockhead as you sound like."

"I'm guessing that was supposed to be a compliment?"

A warm squeeze of Clay's arm. "It was."


	3. She's Good With Her Hands

Clay dragged himself off the late bus from the station, plodded upstairs, and fumbled with his keys like he had been hitting his personal happy hour like the heavy bag. The bar had indeed called out to him louder than usual, and he almost had to hit himself to turn it down. Much as a good show of getting rat arsed might numb his frustration, missing the last train home before a day off would bring it all back with interest.

Redd was sprawled in undershirt and pajama trousers on the sofa, the single piece of furniture he had insisted on upgrading from castoffs because his feet hung well off the end of their old one. He had a steaming mug of tea, an empty one he had once again forgotten to put in the sink, and some brick of a book that would be better used for curls or flyes or chucking at whichever layabout was leaving plates all over the gym floor like land mines. Clay had once flipped through a few pages of such reading material, saw nobody getting pissed or punched or pantsless, and went right back to the telly. Whose distraction was about what he needed right now, except Redd would grumble unless he turned the volume down so low there was no real point.

Almost as if sensing the weight of temper in Clay's head, Redd sat up, marked his place, and offered the nearby remote. Clay plopped down next to him with a creak of the cushion springs, flipping to a mindless sitcom as if its canned laughter could cure him through the sheer inanity of repetition.

"That good of a read, huh? Or were you waiting up for me again?"

"Some of both."

"You don't have to do that, you know. Don't go losing sleep for my sake."

"I'm not. I'm not lifting tomorrow, so I can lie in for a bit. Could you use some tea?" Redd made as if to get up and get it started. "The water's still hot. It won't take long."

"I could use some whisky."

"Even more so than usual?"

"Come on, bruv. Don't be like that." Clay fixed Redd with the old stink eye, in no mood for such jokes that stung more than he ever meant them to. "You know the week I've been having."

"I do. I'm sorry. Still nothing, am I right?"

A poker table was bleeding cash, a small but steady drip. Clay had been putting in time and a half, searching the worn and grainy tapes for funny business - frequent flyers in pairs and groups, gestures and nods only discovered to be signals when viewed all at once back to back. Instead he was seeing a long stretch of shite luck that seemed to be random and honest.

"Right on, unless you count my case of eye strain."

Redd took a gentler tone. "I wasn't just asking about that."

Clay had seen Trinity up to her guest room after sharing another cocktail, his business card - which she tucked into her cleavage with a smile - and enough vulgar rhymes to attract a small audience. She sent him off in turn with a peck on his cheek and a delicate hand on his shoulder, twin touches he could still feel after a week and counting. And that was all he had. Clay had sneaked out of his cave as he could, hoping to catch Trinity in the bar or the conservatory or maybe even saying hello to Redd, knowing he would only keep her off his table and not out of the casino entirely. Instead she was invisible, then gone before he had any chance to ask - and still incommunicado after all this time.

"Yeah, yeah. I know. You don't have to tell me again. It was a party. It was one night. A good night, but still." Clay sighed, both at that repeated sentiment and the knowledge that Redd - who refused to get his own hopes up about various things in general - only meant to keep him from being hurt. "Maybe that's all it was, no matter how I wanted it to be more."

The mail pile on the table was dull as ever. A catalog from the supplement shop where they ordered protein powder, pages of pills good for little more than expensive piss. An electricity bill that Redd hadn't yet switched to online pay as he kept making noise about doing. Leaflets for the greasiest sort of takeaway shoved past the No Junk Mail sticker on their letterbox flap. Clay checked his phone again in case any messages had popped up since the train. No blips on the weather forecast of his lock screen.

"Is that really all of the mail?" Redd asked. His voice was strange. Sneaky, almost.

"You would know. You brought it in."

"I did, but then I needed a bookmark. I thought I took that power bill, but you were just looking right-"

Clay grabbed Redd's book off the table before he finished the sentence. A cream envelope stuck out just enough to reveal half the name of its sender. Clay yanked it out, marveling at the firm weight of its paper and the lettering of his address as Redd leaned back with a satisfied smirk.

"Damn it, bruv. Should I hit you or hug you?"

Redd laughed, unfazed as usual by any of Clay's physical threats. "You should open that regardless."

Clay fetched a knife to slit the envelope, figuring it was too fancy to tear open. Inside was Trinity's own card and another that he started to read out loud before thinking better of it, struggling to steady his voice as a flush crawled up from his collar.

 _There once was a bouncer named Clay_  
 _And a sculptor all gone off astray_  
 _And their grand masquerade_  
 _Was not sham nor charade_  
 _Shall they meet once again some fine day?_

Redd had been perched on the edge of the sofa to listen. His smile started that slow wide spread as Clay realized his own mouth was hanging open. "Sounds like that was more than just a party after all."

"Do I get to say I told you so?"

"Well, you just did."

"Do I get something else then?"

"Such as what? A celebration shot?"

Despite his sarcasm, Redd was already up and after the Talisker Skye. He came back with a finger for him and two for Clay, and they clinked before settling in to sip.

"I'll ring Trinity tomorrow morning, see if she's free as well." Clay had a sudden brainstorm. "And maybe I'll write her a poem."

Redd's voice turned distinctly skeptical. "Dare I ask how that would go?"

"I know a lady with class. But she also has lots of sass. She has a good heart and she's not scared to fart." Clay unsuccessfully scrambled for words. "And then something about her ass."

Redd wrinkled a brow, shaking his head like he was looking at a blurry printout of a fifty-pound note that some wanker kept trying to pass off as real. "You're impossible."

Clay grinned. "It's almost like you know me."

* * *

As Clay pulled into the train station, Redd turned to grab his satchel out of the back seat. "Thanks for the ride."

"Thanks for the car."

"Of course. You're the one with the grand plans for today. Are you going to be all right?"

Clay indicated his phone in the cup holder. "I've got my directions." Then the rose tucked next to it, just bought from the florist a block from their flat. "I've got this too." Safer than any of the verses Clay had been scribbling at well into the night - at least until he could beg some help from Redd, whose love of fancy writing would at least be good for that.

Redd nodded. "So you've got it all, then."

"I sure as hell hope so."

"I know so."

Clay felt himself lighting up as nervousness slid back into confidence. Sometimes Redd acted like he had been the one born three years earlier and Clay would forever be a teenager. But that was his way of looking after him, just as Clay wanted to see Redd cared for by someone as soft and kind and gentle as he deserved. They shared a trust as they always had, a bedrock beneath their disagreements on the finer and more painful points of casino security, their pokes at each other's habits of sleeping or drinking or housekeeping. Those words had come straight from Redd's heart, easy and honest and natural.

"I'll say the same to you, O Captain of Craps." Clay nudged Redd's arm. "Go get some big bucks for Lucas, some nice tips for yourself, and the barmiest cocktail the house will shake up for you. Maybe you'll even get a pretty bird to treat as well."

"It's the early shift - not much of a crowd for me to draw, and I'm still working out how to do that without my card tricks. Let's not go overboard here."

"You do you, bruv. I've got big enough dreams for both of us."

"Well, head croupier would be nice, but you know how I-"

Clay cut off the obvious line of worrying. "Am ace at dealing and busting your balls to get even better? Yeah. I do. Go get after it."

"Same to you." Redd threw a smile over his shoulder as he got out of the car. "Bruv."

Clay drove off northwest toward Taverham, whistling along to a mix of folk tunes that seemed to fit a journey to the countryside - which would have driven Redd right bonkers, as he claimed Clay couldn't find a key if it whacked him in the face and sent a map for good measure. The sun was out, the traffic light, the joy in Trinity's voice still fresh in Clay's ear from his call to her after he had shaken off his morning nerves with some fast rope jumping and a cold shower. He had been riding on that joy, forgetting about how long it had been since his last proper date rather than a few drinks and a horizontal romp with some failed chaser of Redd's who went after him as second prize. Clay only thought of the odd verse he was in a mood to sing along to - another blasphemy to Redd's musician ears - until his phone's announcement sent a thrill up his spine like the bell calling him to his corner of the ring.

He had arrived.

Compared to the likes of the Brutale, Trinity's house was a cottage. Yet it was well kept and large enough to have a wander through, the sort of place that said money without screaming it. Clay had dressed in suit and tie and freshly shaved his head along with his chin, and he was grateful for this bother when a woman greeted him at the door in slacks and blazer and an upsweep of silvershot hair.

"Mr. Clay Rockridge, I presume?" A string of delicate words like the pearls around her neck.

"Yeah. Yes." Clay's voice was a grunt in comparison, but he figured that wasn't about to change any time soon. "That's me."

"Pleased to meet you. I've heard so much." She reached out a manicured hand, and they shook. "I'm Fiona, Trinity's assistant."

"Pleased to meet you, too. I hope that much was good."

"Oh, it was. She says you have quite the tongue on you. It truly knows how to make a woman smile."

Clay felt himself reddening at a particular way that could be taken, realizing to his deeper chagrin how obvious he was being when Fiona continued with a laugh. "Your sense of humor, that is. What did you think I meant?"

"I think my face made it pretty clear just now."

"Perhaps, perhaps not. If you're in no mood to tell, I won't even try to guess." Fiona beckoned Clay inside with a friendly wave. "Trinity will be out shortly when she can tear herself away from her work. Do come in and make yourself at home."

Clay took a mincing step inside like he was about to break the house just by being in it the wrong way. Instead it was bright and airy, decorated with plants and the occasional sculpture. The parlor seating was square and solid rather than some fussy spindly rubbish, its green fabric so velvety smooth that Clay closed his eyes for a moment to imagine how Trinity would appreciate it. Ambient electronica filtered in from hidden speakers, floating like clouds in a late afternoon sky.

Fiona brought in a white tray as simply stylish as the furniture. "May I offer you some tea?"

Clay accepted with thanks, trying out this mannerly part Fiona seemed to think he could fit, and she sat down and poured for them both. He normally went for coffee - the more bitter, the better, a proper slap in the face guzzled fresh and hot to get him into his sweats and out the door and work its magic en route to the gym. Redd patiently took his with sugar and cream, ignoring Clay's taunts of missing the point.

Clay decided to taste his tea before doctoring it up likewise, figuring he could use any face slap it was in a mood to offer. It was smooth, almost sweet, like smelling flowers. The tea tray was adorned with small plates of baked goods - the elevenses Trinity had mentioned, which Clay had been served once years ago by some distant relation and had long since forgotten were an actual meal rather than a joke about second breakfast. It all looked so dainty, too pure for his thick and gnarled fingers to touch - let alone to shove into his gob with the usual spray of crumbs.

"So. Uh. Fiona." Clay normally opened his mouth when he had a pressing question or a loud opinion, and he otherwise saw no point in wrecking the peace. Now he seemed to need something to say and had no idea what that something was. "This is a really nice house."

"Thank you. I was in charge of the decor. Trinity said that she wanted it to be sleek and elegant and comfortable, and I went on from there."

"Well, both of you did good - and a lot better than I expected. Thought I was going to feel like a gorilla in a knickknack shop."

Fiona laughed. "I feel that way myself in those sorts of homes, which is just one reason I'm glad to be here."

"I'm glad to be here, too. Never had a lady invite me to a place like this before. And I didn't exactly grow up in a place like this myself." Clay took another sip of tea, reminding himself to be patient. "Sorry I don't really know what to do."

"What you do is sit back and enjoy yourself. Here. Have a scone. Try the marmalade. It's my favorite."

Clay did as directed as Fiona prepared one for herself. The orange marmalade was the high end stuff, spicy and thick with chunks of peel. Some got onto Clay's fingers as he finished up, and he licked them off before remembering to use a napkin instead. Across the table, Fiona was discreetly doing the same.

"Good, isn't it?" Fiona asked. "There's a touch of whisky in there, even."

A familiar voice sang out from the hall. "Are you two getting sticky fingers without me?"

Trinity appeared in the doorway in a sleeveless shirt and faded jeans that fit her as well as that black satin gown. Her light brown hair was twisted up in a bun held with a pair of sticks. Clay had tried to imagine how she looked under her mask, building on the fine points of her mouth and chin. He was spot on in some ways, pleasantly surprised in others. Trinity's features were elfin, her cheeks freckled, her eyes unexpectedly dark - and wide and bright as her impish smile.

"Come on in," Fiona called. "Make it a threesome."

Clay flushed. "Am I getting ganged up on here?"

"Not at all." Fiona got up and went to the door. "I'll leave you both to your privacy, unless there's anything you need in particular. Have a lovely time together."

Without her cane - and with what looked to be memory - Trinity walked precisely to that empty seat. She sat down with a smile. "Hey."

"Hey. I brought you a rose." Clay held it out. "It's right in front of your face, arm's length or so."

"That's very considerate." Trinity found Clay's hand, plucked the flower, had a long whiff. "And lovely. Really, though, I'm just glad you brought yourself."

"I can't say I smell that good all the time. Especially not right after a workout."

"I can smell your aftershave. It's very nice. Seems to me you clean up well enough."

"I guess I do, huh?" Clay took a butter cookie, light and flaky and melting right away in his mouth. "So what are you up to today? Sounded to me like you've got a lot going on."

"I'm creating a piece for the Whitechapel Gallery. If you're not familiar, it's rather a big deal. Or, let's be straight - an actual big deal."

"Famous place? Lots of competition?"

"Both, and very much so." Trinity located the tea tray and its vessels with a few skims of fingers, pouring herself a cup before Clay could offer to get it for her. "I'm still gobsmacked that I was selected."

"I'm not. You make some crazy fine work. I'm not even an art person or anything and I can tell."

"We're all art people in our own ways. You're a fighter - or you were. There's a rhythm in that."

Clay laughed, trying to imagine Redd playing piano to the odd drum beat of shuffling footwork and fists to the face. All he could think of was the disgusted slam of keys he used to receive when talking too long to get his attention throughout being pointedly ignored. "A damn ugly one, but yeah."

"Perhaps it's not so ugly. Perhaps more so just gritty and unfiltered. Practical. Energetic. Passionate, even, in its own rough and tumble sense."

Clay had been wondering what Trinity saw in him, whether he was just a walk on the wild side - a blue collar brute for a bored posh bird, a body to bounce on for a night or two. They had shared jokes, of course, but this talk was going beyond that. Maybe he was interesting to her in some way beyond curiosity. Likeable, just as he was - or perhaps even loveable.

"Huh. Next time some git says I look like a box of smashed arseholes, I'm going to remember that."

Trinity tilted her head with concern. "Do you take that talk to heart?"

"I shouldn't."

"Then how about I give you something that you should?"

Before Clay could decide what sort of proposition this was, Trinity had knocked back the rest of her tea and jumped up with a gesture of invitation.

"Follow me."

* * *

Trinity picked up her cane on their way out to the small barn Clay had already guessed as her work space. She took off ahead down the stone path instead of taking his elbow, as if to show how easily she moved when here at home in her element, and Clay found himself hustling to catch up. Trinity beat him to a door installed between a pair of windows, flinging it open with the energy of a magician's reveal.

"Welcome to Studio Carrington, the place where I get my hands dirty," Trinity declared. "Don't mind the mess. It comes with the territory."

The bright open space was lined with cabinets and a utility sink, shelves of tools and materials, a plaster horror house of heads and hands and disembodied facial features. Clay sculptures sat on pedestals, smaller models in arrays on a work table. A great irregular block of white marble stood alone at one end of the room like it would scare anything that got too close.

"Looks pretty clean to me. Especially as I'm no one to talk when me and Redd get behind on the housework."

"Somehow I doubt you both get mud up to your elbows and in other spots you never expected."

"Nah, we're way past that." Clay laughed. "That's called settling a childhood argument."

"Which of you usually won?"

"It went back and forth, pretty much. Then Redd had a growth spurt and decided to just start ignoring me anyhow."

"I can't imagine you being easy to ignore."

"Heh. I never said I made it easy."

"You and that piece of marble, then." Trinity smiled. "I'm trying to decide what's inside it - what shape it wants to take. I've not been having much luck."

"And I'm not helping, getting in the way of your work like this."

"Au contraire, mon frere. I have to step away from time to time, rest my hands and my mind. Otherwise I'll just continue to frustrate myself."

"Like a break between sets when I'm lifting weights?" Clay guessed.

"Perhaps, though I was thinking more along the lines of -" Trinity paused. "Do you like crossword puzzles?"

"Yeah. I do. Security's sometimes more about staying awake, and there's only so much coffee I can drink. Especially on the damn late shift."

"Do you ever get stuck on a clue and put it down, then come back later and get the answer right away?"

A lightbulb went on in Clay's head, reflecting that exact feeling. "All the time."

"Art is rather like that as well. So now that we are back - " Trinity led them over to the work table with quick, neat steps. "It's time for a fresh look."

Clay studied the models, trying to picture that marble block around each of them. A lineup of naked women stretching or rising or striding forward, head slightly turned toward some leftover hunk of stone carried about the ankle. Each had a confident pose and a hand on herself that looked calming - and dents where her eyes would belong.

"Are those all you?" Clay asked.

"Right on." Teasingly - "I thought you weren't an art person."

"I just figured maybe - because they're women - and because of the eyes. Was that rude?"

"It was reasonable, no harm in it at all. Anyhow, the exhibit - and this piece, when I sort it out - is about human identity, desire, and the burdens we bear. For me, at least, there's a lot of all three wrapped up in being blind."

Clay waited for Trinity to continue, worried about pressing her too hard about something so personal.

"Are you afraid to ask? Don't be. I know you mean well."

"All right." Clay took a breath. "Could you explain a bit? About all that business you just said."

"I could explain a lot, but I'll try to keep it simple. Those terms all describe how my blindness is seen. My identity, first and foremost. Desire to regain the vision I lost as a baby." Trinity's words sharpened with disgust. "And a burden to myself and others in every possible way."

"So that's all you are, it's awful to deal with, and you'd deal with the devil to see?" Clay finished.

"That's accurate - and poetic." Trinity quirked a wry brow. "And I'm some sort of hero because I live my life as I wish and treat its challenges as a matter of course."

"Your life looks damn cracking to me. You've got this great place out here, with Fiona to help when you need it. You make your art the way you want to, stuffy sorts be fucked." Clay felt a bit of a charge as Trinity brightened appreciatively at his choice of language. "Hell, you even went to the masquerade. Me and Redd still haven't gotten that chance. We got our own masks after some years' working, but no invite - eh, let's not try to sort Lucas out right now."

"Let's not. Let's move on." Trinity's eyes sparkled. "Especially as I'd been thinking to sort you out instead."

Clay smiled, remembering how she had put it. "So you still want to see if I'm as much of a blockhead as I sound like?"

"Still? I've been quite looking forward to it."

* * *

Clay grabbed a stool and a sheet to put around his shoulders as Trinity gathered her materials. A bowl of water, some rags, a set of carving tools. A looped wire base that looked like the reading lamp after Redd had knocked it over and figured a bare bulb was better than a broken shade for the time being. A large block of clay that Trinity hauled over and threw on the work table, slender arms alive with muscle as she went about slicing it up.

Trinity seemed to sense Clay's nerves as she stood in front of him. "Deep breath and relax. I swear I won't poke your eyes out."

"What if I twitch or sneeze or let one rip? I don't want to mess this up."

"You won't. I'll be fine. It's a process of adjustment, not a once and done with no do-overs." Trinity flicked her wrists theatrically. "You'll see."

Clay prepared his eyes for the worst as he closed them to the sight of Trinity's reaching hands. Her fingers settled on his shoulders, traced up the sides of his neck, followed his jawline. They mapped his face with the most patient and delicate symmetry, the precise skim of an engineer's instrument. When Trinity gave him the eyelid warning, Clay flinched - but only felt the slightest tickle.

Clay opened up to watch when Trinity invited him to do so. She threw slabs of clay around her post and roughed out the shape of his skull, the thick shelves of his brow and cheekbones, the spheres of his eyes. She came back to him, wiping her hands before refreshing her memory of his face. Clay breathed in the clean mineral scent of Trinity's fingers, matched the rhythm of her work to the hypnotic beat of the music she had put on - sensual vocals echoing over clever piano riffs and the heavy distortion of bass.

Trinity spoke up as a stern mouth took form in a square jaw below a short and bumpy nose. "You can talk if you like. Don't feel that you need to be quiet."

"Can I take a photo? Redd's got to see this."

"Of course. Tell me when to say Percy."

Clay did as asked, smiling himself at her choice of pose cue. When his phone lit up with Redd's reply several minutes later, he read it out loud. "'Clay Squared? That's a good look for you, bruv. She really does see your best side.' Heh. I get that. A clay Clay."

"You've got it." Trinity nodded, digging out the dent put into Clay's left cheek by a drunken headbutt. "And I'd like to think I do what he's giving me credit for."

"Yeah. You do. That's already looking a lot like me, except it's not making me wince. Can't say the same about my reflection."

"That's a shame. Your face is fascinating. It feels strong. Solid. Tested."

"Guess it passed the test if my brain's still where it needs to be."

"Oh yes - you've certainly taken your lumps. I'd love to hear the stories behind those."

Clay wanted to say that his whole head was a lump at this point, but that would miss the one Trinity had set out to make. Instead he watched as she carved a ding in his forehead, a brass knuckle sucker punch from some gobshite he had yelled after for slurring a gym mate who dated other blokes. Clay had shrugged it off and and had the last word - or fist - several bloody times over.

"I've got plenty. I'm proud of some, not so much of others, but eh - it is what it is."

"It's history. Experience. You wouldn't have become who you are without that."

"It's still not so fun to look back on."

"Then don't." Trinity turned to Clay's ears, refining the cauliflower bumps. "Look forward instead."

"Tough to do sometimes when you're shaving around your fuckups every day."

"Perhaps you can start by calling them something better."

Clay tried Trinity's words out, liking how solid and respectable they seemed. "History. Experience. Right?"

"Right." Trinity stepped back and took a bow. "And all done, too."

Clay approached the sculpture with wonder, snapping another photo of the final product. He always seemed to scowl at himself out of the mirror, a heavy glare in a busted mug. In Trinity's hands, he was dignified, striking - more than just repeatedly struck.

"Huh. That's brilliant." Clay touched his model's chin, then his, as if to see how Trinity had compared them. "That really is me, isn't it?"

"Indeed it is. I take it you approve?"

"I do. A lot. Wow. Never thought someone like you would see me like this." Clay cringed, realizing this could be taken as doubting Trinity's skills. "I mean looking good. Maybe. Sort of. I wasn't trying to be-"

Trinity silenced Clay with a squeeze of his shoulder and a gently shushing finger to his lips. She smiled as his hands came to rest on the neat curve of her waist. As he began to draw her in as a question, and she threw herself into his arms to answer it with a kiss. Not a peck this time, but a long one, deep and hungry as her body pressed into his.

Clay was the first to come up for air. "Hey."

"Hey."

"So what do you want to do now?"

"Honestly?" Trinity teased. "I want to see what all that fight training has done for the rest of you."

"Whoa. All right. Can we at least have another date first? Or two?"

"Of course. I'd say it's your turn to decide what's next."

"Well, since you just showed me yours -" Clay started to dismiss the idea, then remembered to quit getting down on himself. "Want to go work out with me and Redd? Pump some iron? Beat on the heavy bag?"

"A test of strength?" Trinity flexed. "You are so very on."

"Are you all set to sweat? Or do you want me to go easy on you?"

"You're joking, right?" A laugh. "Go hard or go home."

"Heh. Great minds really do think alike."

"So you are seeing yourself as such this time around."

Clay smiled. "Maybe I am."


End file.
